We’re a funny lot. It’s only when we die, we pull out the fanfares to celebrate each other’s lives with passion, love and respect.
Up until 6.30am this morning, when news of his death began filtering onto the media, Bowie was already one of the most influential artists of our era. Remarkable, unique, a pioneer, legend, ground-breaking, influential – all applied yesterday as well.
Don’t get me wrong – I adored listening to the three hours of non stop Bowie this morning. I loved the way my local radio station just ditched its normal show and turned the airwaves over to him. Bitter sweet, slightly tearful pogo dancing filled my bedroom.
Same on my drive to work. Had to drag myself out of the car. Different radio station. Every TV, online, and social media have been paying due Bowieness homage.
Shame he had to die to make it happen.
I worked on his Blue Jean video at Shepperton Studios. By then I was already a fan. His Scary Monsters album had been my teenage angst-ridden soundtrack and his earlier work provided the soundtrack to my thankfully now destroyed student film.
I remember his naughty sense of humour and ability to inhale at least 20 untipped Gitanes every hour. I was in total awe and think I mumbled incoherently the few times I spoke to him. Too young to meet my idol.
It’s a horrible time of year. It seems to take the brightest from us; Lemmy from Motorhead, DJ Ed ‘Stewpot’ have all gone in the last week or so. But the biggest shock is realising these people were old. I still didn’t think of them like that.
Getting old is a luxury, my friends. Grab life with both hands while you can, and shake it.